


/summer

by Vintage (KyberHearts)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Archery, Established Relationship, Hunting, One Shot, Other, Reader-Insert, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 21:24:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16003583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/Vintage
Summary: this was a short piece i wrote a while ago, and i really loved iti'll add a summary if i ever write more





	/summer

**Author's Note:**

> this was a short piece i wrote a while ago, and i really loved it
> 
> i'll add a summary if i ever write more

Iorveth knocks his pipe against the aged tree and lets tobacco ash drift down to join a growing mound at his feet. “I thought you said you knew how to hunt,” he murmurs. “You’re doing it wrong.” The Scoia’tel elf crosses his arms, closes his eye, and lets the tobacco plumes waft around him.

You try not to let the smoky scent all around distract you from the flock of gray partridges in the clearing. You raise the borrowed double recurve bow, and let the taut string brush at the corner of your mouth. Remember the arched flight path. Keep your balance centered and feet firmly planted on the ground. This is not a battle; time is limitless.

“Wrong.”

You grit your teeth. “How can you tell?”

“I can’t hear you breathing.” Iorveth steps away from the tree and sets a heavy, gloved hand on your shoulder. “Relax. Set up the stance. Solid foundation. Elbow straight and parallel. You’re not meant to hold your breath. It will ruin your aim-- _Bloedhe Agh Teh_ , you’re going to pass out before you have a chance to draw blood. Relax! Start again.”

“Hard to breathe with all your smoke,” you snarl, shuffling your feet against the moss-covered forest floor.

You roll back your shoulders and fix your gaze on the partridges. They’d hardly moved at all, those oblivious little bastards. Iorveth’s presence truly overwhelmed with that ashy, acrid taste. It stifles your senses, but the elf seems completely immune after decades of the habit.

The elf lightly guides the arrow to the right. “Humorous. But why don’t you kill something and we can continue with the day?” He sees, for a moment, how your knuckles turn white as you tighten your hold on his bow. Before he can reprimand you again, the arrow has already leapt from the rawhide bowstring.

It strikes the target with practiced ease.

You briskly shove the bow at the elf. “I told you,” you mutter, already picking your way over to the faraway clearing, “I know how to hunt.”

“You’re _still_ holding your breath. One day, it’s going to matter. First, you learn how to control your breathing. Then you can improve your stealth. Don’t you want to be as silent as the Brokilon dryads?”

“No. I want to be as loud and nosy as a fuckin’ Squirrel. Like you.”

Iorveth juts out his chin.  “Like me?”

You return to his side, wiping the arrowhead on your sleeve before you return it to the quiver. “Take it as a compliment.” You drag a nail down the right side of your face. “Gods know you need it.”

He scowls, but it’s hard to miss the smirk that lingers on his scarred lips.

Once returned and rested within the main camp, Iorveth decides to oil his bow with the leftover animal fat. He wants not to risk ruining the elven craft by the distant storm clouds. You focus on your own craft: weaving a new mat out of the cattails leaves you’d gathered that morning. You and Iorveth sit back-to-back, your eyes keeping watch on the north and his on the south.

It’s a survival technique he learned as a young elf. The Scoia’tel never traveled alone; they were always in pairs, or brigands. Although you were used to having hunting partners, you had no idea that the stiff and reserved Aen Seidhe were comfortable with personal distance.

Oh, but sometimes when the wind whispers and the bats hound starlight, you’d wake in the middle of the night just as his breath ghosts over the nape of your neck, his thin fingers curled around your jacket creases. Iorveth seems oblivious to any of this when he wakes. Either such encounters are a part of his culture or he actively seeks your presence. Perhaps both.

Iorveth suddenly mutters a curse under his breath and yanks off his red headscarf. Because you’ve been the only individual who has seen the ruins of the proud commander, he shows no discomfort regarding his scars. “ _Ire aëte_. I thought the heat would have faded by now.” He runs a hand over his sweaty scalp.  

“The recent months have been warm,” you agree. “Farmers think it a misfortune or curse upon the harvest.” The locals love to weave rumors as easily as you split and thread the spiny leaves.

He glances over his shoulder. “What do you believe?”

You prick your fingers on the cattail. “Some summers are warmer than others.”


End file.
